Monstrous, Even
by HiroMyStory
Summary: After the events of 'Devil of My Word,' Lucifer struggles with his injured wings and his guilt over killing a human. I published this story on AO3 in three chapters, but in retrospect it is better as a one shot, so I am publishing it that way here.


Author's note: First posting on this site and first fic since the 1990s. This fic explores some of the darker themes of the show. It's not a "happy ending" story, but I hope you find it interesting. A more detailed content warning is provided at the end of the fic.

 **Monstrous, Even**

Lucifer's wings were in bad shape.

He'd managed to keep himself together until he could get home, but he was at the end of his strength. The wings had burst forth, more or less on their own, as soon as he'd stepped out of his elevator. The pain had taken him to his knees.

After several moments and several deep breaths he was able to turn and roughly inspect them. They were torn and bloody with many feathers missing and many more twisted and broken. There were bullets lodged in them still. He couldn't see how many. When he touched a bullet embedded where he could reach, he nearly passed out from the pain.

They also were not healing. He wasn't sure how he knew, exactly. But he'd been injured more than a few times since he'd met the Detective. He healed faster than did humans, he knew, and he suspected he had a higher tolerance for pain, as well. There would come a time not long after he was injured when he knew he would be fine and could almost feel his body knitting back together.

That was not happening now. Perhaps because of the bullets still stuck in the wings? He had no experience with injured angel wings. No one did. Divinity bleeding…the wrongness of it itched against his skin.

Perhaps if he could remove the bullets and get the feathers straightened up, clean, they could begin to heal. His sigh came out as more of a hiss of air. He would need help.

The possibility that the wings weren't healing because Lucifer had broken His first rule danced at the edges of his consciousness, but he firmly shut the thought away.

Lucifer grabbed onto one of his bar stools, using it to lever himself upward. Once on his feet, he gripped the edge of his bar, leaning heavily against it. If he was honest—and he was—he needed it to keep upright.

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket.

Linda. He had called her earlier, after the Detective had fled. But he'd heard Maze in the background and was suddenly painfully unwilling to confront where Linda's loyalties might lie. So he had turned his call into a status report as if she knew what had been happening: He and Chloe were fine; Cain was dead. He didn't try to interpret Linda's sharp "What?" and quickly ended the call while Linda was conveying his words, sotto voce, to Maze.

Maze. The depth of her betrayal twisted in his gut. He had not thought it could be worse than he already knew. But thinking back on Cain with her hell-forged blade—several things about the last few days fell into bitter place.

Amenadiel. His brother had returned to the Silver City as he had so longed to do. With dear Charlotte, who had tried so hard to be better. Lucifer was surprised to find he missed Amenadiel, but a brotherly hand would be most welcome now. Especially if said brother had been convinced still that Lucifer was his test, as absurd as that had been. He doubted his brother would believe that now. Not after what Lucifer had done.

The Detective. Chloe. He'd called and texted her several times since she'd fled the loft. But she'd neither answered nor returned his messages.

Leaning his weight on his forearms, he dialed her number again. It rang twice and went to voicemail. He was well aware that two rings meant she'd thumbed a button and declined his call. He'd left his pride several texts ago. He sent one more: Please. I need help.

For a desperate moment he considered calling Daniel or Ella. Even presuming he could get them passed the "so, wings…" epiphany quickly enough they could be of help, well…he remembered their faces at the crime scene.

He'd been left to explain everything with Chloe gone. Including Chloe's absence. There was no getting around Cain's large body on the floor with the knife forced through his sternum. It would have been hard for them to pass off that wound as self-defense. And Lucifer didn't help them, because he did not lie. He turned a rare taciturn, stating only that "Pierce" had attacked him first and that he had indeed delivered the killing blow.

He did not tell them that he could have taken the knife away from Cain after he had crushed his hand. That he could have disabled him (seriously or otherwise), so Cain could be arrested. A mortal Cain versus an Archangel, the Devil himself? Never a fair fight despite his desire to justify it to himself in the moment.

He did not tell them how, after he had been safely away with Chloe, he had chosen to come back to the loft, intent on harm, rather than leaving it to human law to deal with an (ultimately) human man. That he had placed such a high value on punishing, no, hurting, Cain that he could not abide the possibility of his escape.

He certainly did not tell them that he had chosen to kill Cain because he wanted to. Because he believed Cain deserved it. In his anger for Chloe. For poor Charlotte. For all the hurt his humans had suffered at Cain's hands. Even for himself who had, for just a moment, thought he had found a kindred spirit in Cain.

And he most certainly had not told them he had killed Cain because he had given his word. Because of a deal.

Still, he saw in their expressions the rationalizations they struggled to cling to and the conclusions they were trying not to draw.

Then Ella had put together that Cain had still been holding the knife when his hand had been crushed and turned toward his own heart. Her typical exuberance at putting together an evidentiary puzzle had slowly tapered off in what Lucifer interpreted as horror. He had tried not to see the way she kept glancing at him, only to have her gaze skitter away.

Cain's men, those that had not fled, turned out to have been merely injured or knocked unconscious. He had that, at least.

Daniel and the other officers and detectives had seemed at a loss about the proper procedure for investigating the death of their own Lieutenant who was also now the subject of an investigation of his own. They seemed in limbo while they waited to hear from higher up the chain of command. Finally, Daniel had told Lucifer he could leave but then had caught him on the way out with an awkward, "Hey, but, uh, you aren't planning to leave L.A. anytime soon, right?"

Lucifer banished thoughts of the loft with a conscious effort.

Flopping over the bar, he let his arm drop until his hand clasped a bottle of scotch left on the underbar. Not the one he would have chosen just now, but beggars can't be choosers, particularly when said beggar is bleeding across his own marble bar top. He opened the bottle with a distressingly shaky hand. He swallowed several swigs from the bottle in quick succession. He couldn't really say whether they helped dull the pain. Perhaps not, as he seemed to lose track of the next several moments.

The wings spasmed, sending wracking pain through his body. He clung to bar, body thrown half over it, until the shuddering stopped.

When he came back to himself, Lucifer checked his phone. Still nothing from the Detective. Another wave of dizziness. He really couldn't wait much longer. He feared he would lose consciousness, and, with the wings not healing, he was not sure if he would wake up.

He would not be able to remove the bullets or tend his wings on his own. Yet, he had no one to help him. The thought was a surprising burn in his chest. He had no one.

He let the pain and bitterness and guilt stir in his gut for a moment. Well, he had had no one once before, and he had survived. He could do so again. If he could not fix his wings, there was another option.

He pulled Maze's blade from his pocket, still wrapped and sealed in its evidence bag. No doubt Daniel or Ella would question him about it at some point, and he would find something to say. Perhaps Amenadiel had rubbed off on him some, but he could not leave it in police custody. Or, perhaps, he simply did not want to. Perhaps he'd wanted to confront Maze with it.

Regardless, it came in handy now.

His fingers couldn't manage the seal on the bag, but the blade had no trouble pushing through the plastic. It still had Cain's blood on it. He tried to wipe as much of it off on his trousers as he could.

The movement put him off balance, and he almost fell. He caught himself with both hands, the blade clacking against the marble bar under his fingers. Several moments passed with him staring past the knife at the bar top. His eyes slid to the closed elevator doors. Finally, he shook his head to clear it.

He had his devil face back now. Would the wings even grow back this time? He shouldn't care. Except. Except it had only been those wings that had allowed him to save the Detective. And then there was the matter of his promise to Dr. Linda…

But what choice did he have? His strength was slipping.

His phone was still on the bar top, dark against the backlighting coming from below. He stabbed the home button. No, he had not missed any messages.

He cursed under his breath. This should be easy even with the uncertainty. But. He would not be able to protect Chloe with them again. And he would once again be cutting off the possibility of returning to Hell. Much to Maze's disappointment, he thought with a bitter smile. If he truly needed to return to Hell, there were other ways; not so for her. It didn't matter. He hated the wings. He did. Even if they had done the one good thing.

He was sweating now, something he wasn't accustomed to, the weapon slick in his fingers. He did his best to grasp one of the wings while he laid the blade in place.

With one last glance at his dark phone, he made the first cut.

~ - o O o - ~

The wings did not grow back. Lucifer couldn't lie and pretend a part of him wasn't a little disappointed. Something to talk to Linda about, if she was still on his side.

Lucifer passed the week in his penthouse. He did not go down to Lux.

No one visited. His phone remained stubbornly silent.

Lucifer spent the better part of the first day drifting in an out of consciousness. It had been worse than any of the previous times. He chalked it up to his already weakened state. After he showered and dressed, he decided to use his bar to try in earnest to defeat his "pesky supernatural metabolism" once and for all.

He sent several wayward texts to the Detective on the second day.

On the third day, he fed the sorry, battered wings into the fire pit on his balcony.

He had far too much time to think on the fourth day. He had made a strategic error regarding his liquor reserve. Too late, he thought to call down to Lux to order his penthouse bar be restocked. His bar manager, the third since Maze— _fuck Maze_ , had told him their distributor would arrive in the late afternoon. Entirely too much time.

 _You want to be good_ , Cain had told him. The comment had puzzled Lucifer at the time. But he realize now it had been true. Whether for the Detective, or himself, or who he was on Earth.

Yet Lucifer had recklessly—heedlessly—broken Dad's first rule, just like the so many killers he had been tasked with punishing since the dawn of humanity.

When, on the rooftop, he'd seen Chloe was unhurt, _safe_ , he'd felt pure joy like he'd rarely felt in his long life. It had thudded through his veins coming so quickly on the heels of the pure despair he'd felt when he thought she'd been shot. _We need to find Pierce_ , Chloe had said then. It had been in pure rage that he'd decided to go back to the loft. Pure rage in which he'd fought Cain's men.

Then, something colder, more controlled, had replaced that rage. Lucifer tried to push aside thoughts of his actual fight with Cain, but his mind circled back stubbornly.

The fight itself had been brief. He'd played with Cain. Taunting. Casually brushing him aside. Dancing around him as Cain fought in furious, desparate swipes. _He'd had fun_. Smiling. Adjusting his cufflinks. Like it had been a game. When Cain had managed to slice the sleeve of his suit, Lucifer had stopped toying with the man and ended it swiftly and brutally. He'd grinned and crowed when the act was done. _Devil of my word_.

Lucifer had always thought dear old Dad's punishment—the Fall, Hell, scapegoat for all the world's sins, etcetera, etcetera—had not fit the crime. But maybe his Father had known what Lucifer was all along, the punishment preemptive.

 _You chose to kill her_ , he'd told Cain when the other man had pled innocence for the "accident" of killing Charlotte Richards.

There were many reasons to kill Cain. Many reasons why he had wanted to. Many reasons he had done so. Each time he thought back, a different reason seemed to predominate. He could say it was necessary to stop Cain because he was dangerous and would undoubtedly hurt others in the future. He'd returned to the loft with a conviction that Cain had to be stopped. But he hadn't just stopped Cain. He'd ended him—in anger and retribution, with satisfaction and just a touch of glee.

So, sure, he'd had _reasons_ to kill Cain. But then he'd spent eons as the punisher of souls that had had _reasons_. He'd heard them all.

They did not change what Lucifer had chosen to do.

He would be lying—and he did not—if he pretended this was some kind of isolated incident, like he hadn't been heading toward this act for some time now. Sure, he'd never broken Dad's prohibition on killing humans before. But he'd danced up to the razor's edge. The Detective had stopped him from going too far several times. And even Amenadiel had pulled him back from the brink once.

And then of course there was the matter of his brother. Uriel. He'd overcome his guilt for Uriel's death with Mum in Hell. But he reexamined that now as part of his pattern (Uriel would've liked that). It had been different, of course. Uriel had had the equivalent of a loaded gun—loaded piano key?—pointed at the Detective and Mum. But, still, Lucifer had made the choice, no one else.

He was a killer.

He was not good.

He was saved by a call from Lux that the liquor distributor had arrived.

On the fifth day, he stood clutching the sink in front of a bathroom mirror, staring as his visage flickered back and forth between the face he had been created with and his devil face. He had called the devil face his true face once, to Amenadiel. Yet after he'd understood what Amenadiel had been telling him and come to realize he had given himself his devil face, he knew it was not. But he had been wrong again. It _was_ his true face, this face he had given himself. Because it reflected the monster he truly was. He spent the remainder of the fifth day in his devil form.

On the sixth day, he broke down and called Daniel. How long could it take for the LAPD to decide whether to arrest him for murder? If the humans wanted to punish him, he would accept it. After all, fair was fair.

"I just got back from leave, and the investigation is being handled by an anti-corruption task force, which invited the Feds in. But, well, I've gathered what I could. I need to know, for Charlotte. I—" The sentence choked off.

"I'm sorry, Daniel." Lucifer had forgotten for a moment that he would be grieving still.

"Anyway," Daniel said, after he cleared his throat, "they've turned up plenty of evidence against Pierce. They've raided more than a dozen properties related to the Sinnerman network. And several officers were arrested day before yesterday. I hear there will be more arrests soon. No detectives from Robbery-Homicide Division yet. It's weird that Pierce got himself installed as our LT. Wouldn't Vice or Gangs and Narcotics have made more sense?"

He was rambling a bit, and Lucifer was not going to enlighten him as to "why them."

Instead, he prompted: "And what about…what happened at the loft?"

"Yeah, I think it's going to be okay. From what I hear, they are likely to classify it justifiable homicide. Nothing's final, but they aren't that interested into digging into _that_ part of the whole Pierce mess. Heck, all I got was an unofficial talk about protocol, not even a formal admonishment or write up for my file…."

If he said more, Lucifer wasn't listening. Justifiable homicide. Lucifer tried to think back to the loft. The crime scene was likely indecipherable absent certain key facts. Was there enough evidence, if looked at the right (wrong) way, to arguably justify the amount of force he had used? He did not want to think about the loft. It wouldn't be the first time the LAPD had taken the easier way out of a complicated situation. Corrupt little organization, indeed. Lucifer was relieved, and he was not relieved.

He wasn't sure how much time passed while he was lost in his thoughts, but finally Daniel caught his attention again.

"But, Lucifer…" He paused in the way humans sometimes did when they were trying to figure out how to say something hard. "There's been a lot of scrutiny over your work with the LAPD. How and why you were made a consultant; your role in investigations; some of your conduct. Listen…they aren't going to let you come back."

Lucifer drew in a sharp breath. It made sense; he should have known, if he had thought about it. This would be hard to charm his way past. Besides, how could he catch killers when he was one himself? He despised a hypocrite.

"Look, I'm sorry, man."

There was an awkward pause, and when he heard Daniel draw in a breath, probably to end the call, Lucifer asked what he really wanted.

"Chloe?"

"She's…okay. Listen, man, you haven't talked to her?"

Lucifer scrubbed his face with his hand, and it took him a moment to get the word out: "No."

"Well, she's been put on paid administrative leave until they sort the whole Pierce thing out."

"But—"

Daniel overrode his interruption. "She'll be fine, you know she will. She hasn't done anything wrong. It's just that…she was his fiancé and she was involved in his death and her partner…well. They're being cautious. They can't have her working other cases and then have something stick to her in the Pierce investigation. Which it won't. But it would be a defense attorney's dream…" He was babbling now.

Lucifer sighed. "Take care, Daniel," he said and disconnected the call.

He drank steadily the rest of the day.

On the seventh day, he got up, showered, put on a fresh suit, and made sure his appearance was squared away. He cleaned up the bar and opened the curtains and patio doors to let fresh air in. Today he would make decisions. Would he stay in L.A., or go somewhere else? Vegas, or maybe Miami? Hong Kong? Macau? Possibly Dubai? All cities suited for reinvention, one way or another.

He glanced at his phone. No new messages. He'd think about the future after breakfast.

~ - o O o - ~

After breakfast, his mind remained curiously blank when he tried to think about the future. He pulled a vintage Tunison atlas from one of his bookshelves. Thus, he was sitting on a bar stool paging through the book, looking impeccable for the first time in days, when the elevator dinged unexpectedly.

She took a few steps into his penthouse. She stood for a moment, surveying the room, until she found him at the bar and turned toward him. She looked resplendent. At this time of day, the sunlight reached far into the room and caught her hair. It was pulled back into its typical ponytail. She looked polished, perhaps wearing more makeup than he'd seen her wear in awhile. For an instant, it reminded him of the early days of their partnership. When she moved, he saw, under her jacket, the firearm holstered at her belt, even though he knew she was on leave. Did she feel she needed it to make herself feel safe coming here?

She took a couple more steps in his direction, but stopped while she was still several feet away.

"Detective, what are you doing here?"

She didn't meet his eyes, but shrugged.

"You're the one who sent 40-some texts to my phone," she said with rueful turn of her lip.

"That was almost a week ago," he said quietly.

The loft was briefly silent, and Chloe took another step closer before she spoke again.

"The whole Pierce investigation is a huge mess. There were more arrests last night. I don't expect it to wrap up any time soon."

"Cain," Lucifer corrected.

"Cain."

After that concession, Chloe fidgeted with her fingernails for a moment. Then, quietly: "If he was an immortal, how did he die?"

"Mmmm. Well, he managed to break his curse a bit back. You see, he had _one_ moment where he believed he had been selfless and no longer deserved it, and _poof_ it was gone. After literally millennia. Guy really had a self-esteem problem, if you think about it. Or was just the biggest asshat in the history of—"

"So he _believed_ his curse should be broken and it was?" Chloe cut him off, dubious.

"Yup." Lucifer drew the word out and ended it with a pop.

"Is that…" Chloe glanced his way for just a moment before looking down again. "Is that something like how sometimes you are immortal and sometimes you're not?"

"Something like," Lucifer murmured.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them then. Chloe looked at the bar, looked at the stool beside her, looked at her fingers. Lucifer tried to figure out what he should say. Wanted Chloe to say something.

"Listen, Lucifer, you can't come back to the LAPD," she did finally say.

"I know." He looked toward the windows, rather than at her.

He waited for her to say something more, but nothing was forthcoming.

Finally, looking back at her, he asked: "So where does that leave us?"

Her head jerked toward him, and she actually met his eyes for a moment. She looked surprised. Like it hadn't occurred to her that he might actually ask that, or maybe even like she had not considered the question at all.

"Lucifer…" Her words stalled for a minute. "What you are…." She shook her head.

Lucifer sighed and looked away again. He felt as if a weight had settled on his chest. She wasn't looking at him again, but, if she did, he didn't want her to see how her words cut him.

"I'm struggling with all of it," she confessed. "I'm going to take some time. Yesterday was the first day of Trixie's summer break. We're going to go on a road trip—three weeks to East Coast and back. I'd like her to see more of the country, and I need some time to think. We'll see if I still have a job when I get back." The rueful half-smile was back.

"You will," he assured. He added casually, "I'm thinking of doing some traveling, as well."

She nodded, noncommittally.

But that wasn't all he needed to say, he realized. "I'm…wondering if I should come back after." His voice came out rougher than he intended, and he found himself holding his breath waiting for her response.

"Lucifer…I can't answer that for you. I'm barely putting one foot in front of the other right now."

He let out a painful sigh and turned more toward the bar to hide his reaction.

She wasn't saying she definitely wouldn't be able to come to terms with what he was; yet, it was also true that she could hardly look at him.

They remained frozen as they were until she finally said: "Lucifer, I should get going."

Lucifer turned back toward her, but she was facing the windows now, though her stare seemed to be focused on nothing in particular.

She sighed, and began: "I hope…"

She gave a firm shake of her head, as if to herself, and turned toward the elevator.

Lucifer felt as if his heart was suddenly beating erratically. In that moment, he needed her desperately. Needed her, more than anything, to tell him he was not a monster. At least not to her.

He jumped off the stool, and took quick strides to catch her.

"Chloe, _please_ , wait."

He caught her arm, and turned her back toward him. They were inches apart.

"Chloe, please. I need—I need to talk to you. Please. Sit down with me, and we'll talk. I can't—I need—" His words were getting stuck now.

He had lifted a shaky hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, as he had many times before. A habit. A comforting gesture. But his hand stopped before he touched her.

She seemed to be frozen in place. She was literally trembling. Her breath suddenly shallow. Her eyes cast aside.

He made his decision about the future, then, before he stepped back from her. Before she turned again and walked to the elevator. Before the doors closed behind her.

~ - o O o - ~

Chloe let out a shaky breath, close to a sob, once the elevators doors closed. She hit the button for the ground floor.

It had been a mistake to come. She had wanted to see him before she left—the Lucifer she had known, not the one she'd seen last. She'd hoped it would help her put order to her thoughts; to reconcile the irreconcilable.

But being here had been more painful than she could have imagined. They were not two different people, Lucifer-her-partner and the Devil. She'd known that, but she hadn't really felt it until now. She didn't know how to reconcile the feelings she had with the knowledge of what he was. She didn't know if she would be able to. One of many things she needed to sort out.

The elevator had only just kicked into gear and begun its descent when she heard the gunshot.

She stabbed desperately at the button for the penthouse. But the elevator would stubbornly descend all sixteen floors down to Lux before it would rise again. Her heart was thundering in her chest. Preparing for danger, she reached for the firearm at her hip.

It was gone.

~ - o O o - ~

Lucifer awoke with a gasp. He must have passed out from the pain, he realized.

It was a struggle to get to his hands and knees and then to pull himself to his feet.

He staggered over to the bar, hanging onto it to stay upright.

He needed help. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket.

He grabbed a bottle of scotch and took several unsteady swigs while he tried to think of who to call.

Yes, he needed help. His wings were in bad shape. He wouldn't be able to get the bullets out alone.

But he couldn't think of one person who would help him after what he'd done.

He saw Maze's hell-forged blade on the bar. It was wet with blood, as were his hands. He took it up. He knew what he had to do, and made the first cut.

 _Please, Chloe._

He had no one.

He was a monster.

~ - o O o - ~

" _Deep down, you know you're a monster. And that you belong in Hell, where you will torture yourself with that truth for eternity. 'Cause no matter what you tell yourself, you can't outrun what you've done. What you truly are." — Lucifer, "A Devil of My Word"_

End note: Thank you for reading. I hope you will leave me some feedback.

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes catastrophic thinking, self-mutilation (specifically wing removal), and suicide/(at least literal) major character death/return to hell. I hope you will stick with me to the end, but if not you can read up to the shift to Chloe's perspective, if you like, for a less dark ending.


End file.
